


D'you Wanna Play Deductions?

by CanadianSlytherin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Kid lock, Teen lock, non slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianSlytherin/pseuds/CanadianSlytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, age 8, is brilliant. Of course, he isn't the only genius at home. No, there are two others. One being his mother, and the other being Mycroft, whom is seven years his senior. The two get along well. Mycroft is the only one who knows that the kids at school bully his dear baby brother. One day, Mycroft is in a bad mood and well... Says something the genius will live to regret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	D'you Wanna Play Deductions?

**Author's Note:**

> TW: minor descriptions of verbal abuse and physical assault.

"Look! It's the Freak." One boy sneered -was his name Phillip? Or Anderson? Sherlock never remembered; wasn't important now that Mycroft knew- beside him, a girl with an ironically kind face sneered.

"Is the faggot here to tell us if Mummy's having an affair?" she snapped.

Sherlock studied them, deciding briefly they were not worth his time nor effort and began to try to move past them. Clearly, Anderson (Sherlock decided it was indeed his name) disliked that. Grabbing Sherlock's backpack, he pulled him back and shoved him against a wall. 

"Where you going, you weirdo? Too much of a pussy to stay and fight?" he snickered.

"No. I merely decided you two imbeciles were not worth my time nor effort and wished to go home," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Oooh, the nervous geek wants to go home and cry to Mummy? Can't handle the truth, Lockie?" Donovan sneered. He stiffened at her use of Mycroft's nickname for him.

"I do not cry."

"We'll see," they both smirked, and the next thing he knew, one jammed a sharp fist into his stomach, and the other aimed a blow at his jaw. He crumpled to ground with a cry of pain.

 _Do not kick your enemy while he's down_  didn't apply to these two, it seemed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock limped home, head bowed. His bangs fell into his face, hiding the black eye he was sporting. He rubbed absently at his split lip and noted that it was still bleeding. He wondered briefly if the tooth they'd chipped had cut his lip before deciding no; the texture of the cut felt wrong. He was also sure that he would have bruises on his torso for a while. He unlocked the door and found the house silent. He tipped his head. Mum didn't work. They were low on a few things, he mused. She must've gone to town to pick some stuff up. All the better in the end; he'd be able to clean himself up without her worrying. He'd also be able to swipe her make up. If she knew her  _Baby boy_ was getting bullied, she'd own that school. Mum was a force to be messed with. 

He walked up the stairs quickly and stopped in the master bedroom to grab her stuff before hurrying to his room, which held his own bathroom and quickly put it on and winced when he realized there was nothing he could about his split lip. Mum would have to buy his story about biting it too often.

Once he was decidedly decent looking, he left his bathroom and went upstairs to the attic bedroom and knocked on the door.

"H-hey, Myc? D'you wanna play Deductions?" he asked, voice slightly shaky with hope and need. Ever since Mycroft started worrying about Uni, Sherlock hadn't seen much of him. He missed his big brother. He wanted to play with him again. "Please? I never see you anymore."

"Go away, Sherlock."

"Later, then?" he asked.

"I don't know. Just go away!"

"Please? Come on! Come out of there and play just like we used to!" he begged. "C-can't we be buddies? Just you and I?"

"Stop being an annoying freak! I said go away!" Mycroft yelled. Sherlock's heart stopped.

"M-Myc?" he stammered, voice full of hurt. There was silence and suddenly the door was flung open to reveal a pale face.

"Lockie, I'm sorry. I-I..."

"D-do you think I'm a freak?"

"No! Honest! I-I just-"

"You agree with them." he choked out, eyes watering as he took a step back.

"No, Lockie, I don't! Come on, let's play!" he said, forcing his voice to sound chipper.

Sherlock didn't reply, just ran off down the stairs, sobs escaping his lips. He ignored Mycroft calling him, and the sound of his elder brother's footsteps chasing after him as he flung himself into his room and shut the door and locked it. "Sherlock! Sherly, come on, please! I didn't mean it! You're my baby brother! Open the door, we can play Deductions!" 

"G-go away, Mycroft! You're no better than the others! You lied to me."

"No, I didn't! Lockie, please, listen to me-"

"No! Go away!" he yelled, kicking the door with his tiny foot. "I hate you!" he sobbed before flying to his bed and laying there, crying into his pillow.

Mycroft always said caring was a disadvantage. Sherlock just figured he meant about what people said. Not about people themselves.

 _Caring is a disadvantage,_ he chanted to himself. The next day, when Mycroft tried to talk to him about, he ignored his older brother.  _Caring is a disadvantage._

 _Caring is a disadvantage,_ he told himself when finally, eight years later, Mycroft proclaimed to have given up on his baby brother in a fit of anger before hurriedly taking it back. 

There was no fixing them. 

Two years after that when Sherlock goes to Uni, he sometimes stares at Mycroft's photo. Sometimes he whispers "D'you wanna play Deductions?" or "Caring is a disadvantage."

 

He'd rather play Deductions.

 

Five years later after Sherlock dropped out, he reclined lazily, syringe in his hand. Suddenly something caught his eye. The light reflected differently in his room, ever so slightly. He studied around the room and noticed the thin layer of dust was disturbed. 

Someone had been in flat. He narrowed his eyes. His pious, patronizing brother. Of course. Who else would sneak into his flat?

"Mycroft." he spoke, voice scratchy with disuse. All the joy and love it once held when he was child at the word was gone now. It was now stoic and cold. Secretly, it upset Sherlock but caring was a disadvantage. That was why he'd argue an ignorant onlooker on the tone of his voice. It wasn't hateful. It was him hiding his longing. But  _Brother Dearest_ didn't need to know that.

"Stop it. I know you're watching. But I'm telling you for the final time- I am done with you!" he spat, trying not to wince at the sharp tone. He didn't want to be done. "You've seen enough. All you need to know, in fact." an irrational wave of anger at the detachment his brother showed him and his distaste at how they both handled the situation arose in him. 

"You keep saying get better! Get clean!" he spat, voice mocking, "You don't know what it's like! I have no incentive to stop, so why should I? You didn't care before! So don't care now! Just leave me alone!" he was aware of his shouting but ignored it. He was aware he was acting like a five year old, but all the hurt and sadness and anger rose within him, making him not care. Get angry or cry in front of Mycroft. And that wasn't bloody likely. Hadn't happened since The Incident.

"We never see each other anymore." he whispered, his resolve weakening. "Why? Why, are you ashamed of me? Worried your junkie, dropout brother will ruin your fantastical government job?" he scoffed in anger, tears pricking at his eyes. "Just stop bothering me!" and he jammed the needle into his pale and scarred arm before he lost his nerve and cried.

"What are we gonna do... Myc..." he whispered before he sank into the high.

Mycroft stared at the screen, tears on his cheeks and his fingers stroking Lockie's face, searching for any trace of his baby brother before he snapped at him and ruined his brother's life. No doubt those children's words got to him. The scars on his pale arms were obviously indicator enough. Where had he gone wrong? Years of trying to reach out, trying to fix them. What made Sherlock this hateful man? Mycroft knew. It was that day. 

A child's voice, full of warmth and love and innocence and raw  _need_ whispered at him,  _D'you wanna play deductions?_

Mycroft wished he said yes when he had the ability to do so.


End file.
